13: The Story of Art and Lovers
by Agnes.of.Evil
Summary: An AU one-shot of Nathan and Haley, set in New York City where the two meet, and connect, over art. Contains graphic scenes of a sexual nature.


**Disclaimer 1: this story contains content of an adult nature.**

**Disclaimer 2: I do not own anything affiliated with One Tree Hill.**

* * *

My name is Haley James and I have had twelve lovers in my short twenty-four years. Eleven of them were men. I've been sexually active since I was eighteen, so you do the math. I don't chew and spit out lovers – I prefer quality over quantity, so before you start thinking two lovers a year is sad, think about how long I've been with each one, and how many times I had sex with each of them. I'm not quite in nympho territory, but then again…

The single female experience I had was the typical college encounter following way too much alcohol and being holed up in my dorm room with my roommate listening to Placebo. I couldn't tell you how we went from singing "Taste in Men" (using our beer bottles as microphones) before we started French kissing and shoving our hands down each other's panties. It just happened. And when we pushed aside the scraps of fabric covering our mounds and fingered the hell out of each other, I knew that _this_ – whatever _this_ was – had a shelf life that could be measured in days. As much as I craved her fingers in me, it wasn't the same as having a well endowed cock ploughing me deep and hard. I needed a man's touch; calloused hands grabbing at my breasts, a flat but wide tongue licking my clitoris to stimulation, before being penetrated (any position, I'm not fussy) by a firm, hard cock. The thought of my roommate strapping on a dildo and trying to do the same to me was comical, to say the least. No, it had to be a man, but I'll never regret experimenting in college. It made me who I am today.

* * *

I'm standing in an art gallery, somewhere in Soho, a glass of white wine in one hand and a gallery flyer in the other. I'm standing in front of a piece of art that depicts a naked woman in the throes of passion. Her head is thrown back, and she is biting one of her fingers. I can't really make out her face, but she has chestnut colored hair that falls around her shoulders. In the lower half of the picture is a man with black hair, whose arm is reaching up and in between her breasts, and his head is buried between her thighs. According to the information card at the side of the picture, the work is by a local unnamed artist. I wonder how local, when I read further and see that they currently live around Washington Square. You can't get more local than that.

I look back at the painting and study the features on the woman more closely. The brush strokes are intricate, and I feel like I am intruding upon a private moment between the couple.

My mind races back to my freshman year of college when I lost of my virginity. I had started a flirtatious friendship with one of the musicians of the resident band at The Kaos Club, an out-of-the-way club on the East side, which a group of us would visit just about every weekend.

He was good. The nights we went, he focused his flirtations solely on me, and I never seemed to catch him out on the nights I turned up unannounced. I would watch him play – bass guitar – and the music completely overtook him. It was mainly covers, punk, ska and the occasional mega-hit just to arouse the crowd, but he seemed consumed by it all. As each song finished, he would find me in the crowd and wink. At the end of their set, he'd buy me a few drinks and we'd start our flirty banter. To me it was everything, mainly because I was barely eighteen and in an over-twenty one's club. Ben, that was his name, he would treat our ritual like it was new every time, and I loved that. So one night, he ups the ante, and invites a few of us to his apartment that he shares with two other guys. I'm already picturing squalor and rodent-infested quarters in some place that used to be a slaughterhouse, but of course, like it all good stories, one of his roommates is a trust fund baby, and the band is just something they do to piss off their parents.

Let me be straight here, the apartment isn't a penthouse with white wash walls and chrome gadgets – they're not _that_ rich – but it is spacious enough to allow three bedrooms and a partial view over into Brooklyn, which I'm told is not that impressive, but it sure as shit impressed me.

So we all sit down in the main room where their stereo is centrally located and is their pride and joy. There's a massive collection of vinyl records and CDs in the storage unit, and we're all singing along or sharing memories that are jogged by the music currently playing. After a few beers, we start being a bit obvious about our pairing off, and before I know it, I find myself in Ben's room, sitting on the end of his bed while he sifts through his own music collection stashed away in his closet. He seems to think I'll be impressed if he plays The Cure, but I could care less, the alcohol is loosening me up, and I want to shift gears on our flirtatious status.

About three songs in, we're already making out on his bed, and he's cupping me through my jeans. I'm trying to help him out by undoing them, but he's having none of it, and keeps pushing my hands away. I giggle at him and take charge by undoing his jeans and stroke him through his underwear. I'm letting him know this has to ramp up considerably. We don't have any conversation about first times or sexual histories, but we both pull out condoms which is a relief and gets us a bit more physical with each other.

Shoes, socks, jeans and t-shirts are discarded at fast rates, and pretty soon we're under the covers of his bed but still in our underwear. He's all over me and he palms my breasts before latching his mouth over one nipple and then the other. I am desperate to get my bra off as his attention is now focused on my panties – or more importantly, what's underneath them. After removing my bra, I am touching my breasts when I feel his hot breath between my legs as he licks the elastic outline. His fingers are coming into play as he traces along where his tongue has been.

I've masturbated on plenty of occasions – I've been doing it almost daily since I was fifteen – so I'm not apprehensive about what's to come, but I've always preferred the contrasting feel of a guy's fingers stimulating me. I don't know what their next move will be, but I know what the final result will be, and that's the main difference.

So Ben is now teasing me by lifting up the elastic either side of my mound, and I can feel the backs of his fingers as they ghost over my pubic hair. He traces his fingers under the elastic almost all the way around to my ass, and I'm pretty sure my wetness has drenched his fingers. I keep gently squeezing my breasts and I think Ben notices this and decides he's played around enough. His own underwear is discarded, and then he loops his thumbs under the sides of my panties and drags them down my legs. In the next breath, his mouth descends on me and I grind against him as his tongue darts in and out of me before pulsing against my clit. As he goes back to tongue fucking me, his hand snakes up my body and cups a breast as my head pushes further back into the pillow.

We obviously go much further than that, but that memory resurfaces after having studied this painting for a few minutes.

I smile wistfully at the memory, but I'm soon jostled from my thoughts when a tall and extremely gorgeous guy sidles up to me. He stands facing the picture and I can see him taking quick glances at me from my periphery. I sip some more of my wine, and re-read the flyer for the millionth time, wondering if this guy is going to say anything when he clears his throat and asks me if I'm an admirer of the artist. I tell him I don't know who the artist is, as I can't make out the signature on the painting and there's no name on the information card. He peers over to read the card, and makes a face as he shrugs his shoulders as if to say "oh well". If this guy weren't so fucking gorgeous, I'd tell him to move along, because he's interrupting my experience with this piece of art. But I say nothing, and go back to looking at the flyer. After a few short moments of silence, the guy next to me then asks if I'm from around here, and I tell him I'm a post-grad student at Columbia. He smiles warmly at me, but doesn't ask any more questions. I ask him if he's a student as well, because when I first clapped eyes on him I thought he was the same age as me, but he shakes his head and only offers "used to be, though" as a response. He tells me about his love of sport, and how a serious injury stopped him from playing professional basketball, and how he discovered a knack for drawing while recovering from his accident. He says he likes to draw portraits, or images that he conjures up in dreams, and nods towards the painting we're in front of. Slowly I'm putting two-and-two together and realise that he is the artist responsible for this piece of art. I extend my hand out to him and introduce myself.

"Hi, I'm Haley James."

"Hi Haley, I'm Nathan Scott."

* * *

It has been a few days since the gallery exhibition - since I met Nathan Scott. He was very charismatic and convinced me to exchange phone numbers with him. He also convinced me to do something else, so here I am sitting partially naked in a light-filled studio he rents. The first time he told me he wanted me to sit for him, I laughed at him thinking it was a line to get me in bed, but he was deadly serious. So here I am, sprawled along the length of a chaise lounge, a canvas sheet draped precariously around my body. Nipples and pubic hair, at this stage, are barely covered. I am a little unnerved by it all, because his process (as with most artists) is to stare intently at their subject while painting, and I'm unsettled by the intensity in the blue of his eyes. I keep apologising for moving – I'm actually squirming – and he keeps forgiving me for my movements. He tells me we'll need to meet several times this week so that he can get the majority of sketching and paint selection done. I tell him it's no problem, unless I have some classes that conflict. He tells me, with a grin, to ditch them. For a split-second, I seriously consider uttering "OK" to him, but bite my tongue before anything stupid leaves my mouth.

* * *

We're coming to the end of the sitting, and it's extremely warm in the studio. Everything's gone relatively straight forward, but there was little talk. Nathan apologised for the silence, but claimed it broke his concentration. He would, on occasion, make a comment about how well the light was reflecting off such-and-such, which was helping him structure the work. Inadvertently, his process was turning me on. _He_ was turning me on. In a weird way, I was allowing myself to take his comments as compliments, and in the time between, I would drift off and imagine all the ways I would let him fuck me. In some instances, I borrowed from previous encounters with past lovers, and on occasion I ended up reminiscing about that lover, rather than picturing how hot sex would be with Nathan.

I'm snapped out of my reverie by Nathan's voice. He's telling me he's got enough for today's sitting, and I'm free to leave if I want. I look between him and my clothes, and wonder if he's going to stay in the studio as I get dressed. He gave me a few minutes alone to undress when we started, but now he's making no move to physically leave. All he's doing is collecting brushes and charcoal, and shuffling them from easel to cupboard. He looks back at me, as I clutch the canvas length around me, tightening it so it doesn't expose me any further. He mutters to himself, and then announces he'll be outside for a few minutes if I want to change. I nod a "thank you" to him, and watch him leave. Racing over to my clothes I quickly put them on, and run a brush through my hair. I leave the studio and see him leaning against the wall, inspecting the paint under his nails or something. He asks me if I have anywhere to be right now and I can only shake my head and follow him.

* * *

We head to a cheap coffee shop about two blocks from the studio. It has mismatched Formica furniture, and chairs that rock slightly due to their unevenness. There are pictures of various New York personalities on the wall and I think it's the best place I've been in. Nathan sits us down and orders our coffee, thanking me again for agreeing to sit for him, and then he apologises for not being able to pay me, but hopes that free coffee and the occasional meal would be considered payment in lieu. I laugh and tell him that free food and beverage are one of the best things a student can hear. Just like being an artist, I hedge. He laughs back in agreement.

As we finish our coffee, we head out the door and look to walk off in different directions. Nathan stops me and says that he's had such a great time talking, he's not ready to stop. I smile at him and ask him what he has in mind. He tells me his place is two streets away, if I'm game, and then he leads the way.

* * *

I'm picturing some tiny studio apartment where there are no walls separating bathroom from bedroom from kitchen, and again, I have it all wrong. He lives in a nice enough building – no doorman, of course – but it's nicer than I expected. We take the stairs to the first floor and he keys the entry, leading me into a small apartment. From what I can see, it's one bedroom, and it's uncluttered. I would have thought an artist's residence would be full of their work, but he explains his passion is solely within the walls of the studio, and his home is completely separate. It helps him create work having two distinct living and working areas.

I take a seat on his sofa, and look at contents of his bookshelf. It seems such a bizarre thing to see books on basketball mixed with books on art, but after getting to know Nathan over the past few days, it seems to fit. He offers me a drink, which I readily accept - I don't particularly care what I'm drinking – and he comes out with the drinks and some food on a tray. He takes the seat next to me, and we continue our conversation from the coffee shop. I learn about his hometown in North Carolina, his warped family, and his time at Duke. I reciprocate, and he learns about my large family scattered across the country, and my time at Columbia. During a lull in the conversation, we quietly sip our drinks as we peer at each other over the rim of our glasses. I'm starting to feel flushed under his gaze, and I smile nervously. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and turns to face me more fully. I place my drink down on the table and then I feel Nathan's hand running up my thigh, and stopping when he reaches my panties. His index finger skims underneath briefly, but then he pulls away. I steal a look at him, and he winks at me.

He leans in, cups the back of my head and gently pulls me to him, kissing me before his tongue probes further into my mouth. I respond immediately, and grab his shirt, almost tearing it as I lift it over his head. We laugh for a moment, before I push him against the sofa, and before he can say anything, I remove my shirt and bra, letting him know this isn't some freshman make out session.

As he sits against the sofa, his hands creep back under my skirt as I straddle him. He cups my ass, and I grind against him each time he rubs his hands over me. The friction from his jeans against my pussy is eliciting moans from both of us, and I can tell my panties are becoming increasingly damp. I reached between us and undo his jeans and push them down a bit, so that they sit down on his thighs, and I have easy access to his cock. I grind against him again, this time his cock is pressing into me through the fabric of my panties. It's pleasurable for both of us to partially fuck like this, my panties the only barrier, as his cock is forcing the fabric into my pussy. Before we get a rhythm going, I raise up slightly and run my finger under the elastic, adjusting my panties back to their original position. Before I can move my finger away, Nathan places his hand over mine, and together we move the material to the side so that he can rub his finger over my clit. He tells me to reach into the pocket of his jeans and take out the condoms. I jokingly tell him he's optimistic if he thought he was going to use more than one with me. He laughs as he moves his finger from rubbing my clit, to sliding deep into my pussy. I sit for a moment and savour the feeling before rising up slowly, and then sinking back down. Obviously I crave more than just being finger fucked, but the foreplay and stimulation are too good to pass over. As I move faster and faster, Nathan adds another finger, and the feeling is exquisite. I reach down and wrap my hand around his cock, feeling how hard and warm it is to the touch, and I notice that my pussy bumps it as I ride down on his fingers.

He wants me to raise up a bit and tells me to sheath his cock. I oblige, pumping him a few times in the process. He closes his eyes at the sensation, before re-opening them and staring right into mine. We share a smile, and then his entire hand is underneath the elastic of my panties, and pushes them to the side as I guide his cock to my pussy. I run the tip around my entrance, teasing us both, as I move it to my clit and press it against the nub a few times. I don't really want to come yet, but I need to have this as I can feel my blood coursing through my body, and then I move his cock back to my entrance and I slowly impale myself on him. He's sitting there, whispering dirty things into my ear as I'm fucking myself on his cock. He's loving the fact that I'm doing this and showing no inhibitions. He moves his head down lower and engulfs a nipple, swirling around it and as I look down at what he's doing, I see how hard and erect my nipples become. He sucks on them, and each time it shoots tingles through me down to where our bodies are joined. He moves his hand a bit, so that I can feel my panties move, and he has exposed the skin on one of my ass cheeks. I laugh and tell him he's given me a half-wedgie, and he traces a finger along where the material has gone. He stops over my hole and presses a finger against it, and this has me sitting up straight – I'm surprised at the feeling of his finger there as well as his large cock that I'm fucking myself on. He starts to move his hips a bit more, and his thrusts are more intense. I can tell he is about to come, so I move my index and middle finger to my clit and start rubbing rhythmically, bringing myself to orgasm. I keep moving up and down his cock as the orgasm washes over me, and as I finish, I feel him tighten up and then release – he moans against my neck, and then we're kissing each other as he finishes.

He removes his hands from my panties, and as I readjust, I notice for the first time how thoroughly drenched they are. It's enough to make me masturbate when I get home.

* * *

And so, over the next few days, this is how Nathan and I spend our time. I sit for him for a few hours in his studio, but now I don't bother so much covering up with the canvas drape. I lay there with it draped haphazardly, and every so often, Nathan comes up to me to readjust it, and each time I let it fall. When I know that he has a certain part of the picture done, I move the sheet from around my hips, and I let my fingers wander down between my legs. I dare not move too much, and when I thrust two fingers in my pussy, it takes every effort not to writhe on the chaise lounge. I move my legs slightly, to allow better penetration and Nathan just sits and watches and paints as I fuck myself with my fingers. As my breathing becomes more erratic and he thinks I'm about to come, he puts his brush down and comes over to me, already erect. He stands me up, turns me back around facing the lounge and spreads my legs. The next thing I know he has my knees resting on the edge of the lounge, as he pushes me forwards and fucks me from behind. I grab a breast with one hand, as I use my other hand to brace against the lounge, and then I feel Nathan's hand cup my mound before he teases my clit with one of his fingers, bringing me to orgasm in record time. I cry out his name, and both of his hands then move to my hips as he fucks me harder and harder and with one final thrust forward, he stays against me and I can feel his load release. His breathing is ragged but calms down as he holds me close.

I work up the courage around the fifth day to ask if he makes it a habit to fuck everyone who poses for him. He smirks at me and tells me I'm the first person to sit for him. His other paintings are all created from dreams he's had, or when he's been inspired from books, plays or movies.

He comes over to me and places a kiss on my lips, telling me I'll get to see the final product tomorrow.

* * *

The time leading up to this moment has been almost intolerable. Nathan and I didn't spend the night together, but in the morning he calls me to say he masturbated twice last night, thinking about me. I blush and tell him he made me come as well last night. There's nervous laughter as he asks me what time I finish classes today, because he wants to meet up again for the final sitting. I tell him I can be at the studio around 1.00pm, as I only have one class today in the morning. He mutters "perfect" and tells me he can't wait to see me. I tell him the same thing, and wonder how the hell I'm going to make it through the morning, when all I want to do is have sex with Nathan Scott.

* * *

I am literally sprinting down the street to where Nathan's studio is located. I cannot get there fast enough. A huge smile spreads across my face as familiar buildings come into view. Running inside and up the stairs, I am panting as I head into the studio. Nathan is unpacking everything for this session as I walk in, and has a huge smile on his face when he sees me. He comes over and gives me a warm and passionate kiss. I am tempted to disrobe on the spot and have sex with him there and then, but I realise that these sessions are a kind of foreplay for Nathan, so I head over to the area where the sheet is resting, and get changed.

We talk about how happy we are that the painting is nearly finished, and Nathan is particularly excited, as the gallery in Soho would like to exhibit more of his work at a major showing in eight weeks. He tells me this painting would be one for consideration, and I blush like a schoolgirl. I'm back on the chaise lounge and adopt the usual pose. I close my eyes and listen to Nathan fuss about with the painting. It's actually a calming experience.

Without realising how much time has passed, Nathan suddenly announces that he's finished – or that he's finished what he needs to with me sitting for him. He says he'll go over some minor areas tomorrow but he doesn't need me for it. I smile at him and he motions for me to come over and see it. I walked slowly over to him, holding my breath, and as I round the easel my hand goes up to my mouth in amazement.

It is simply stunning, and I'm not saying that because it's about me – it's hard to explain, but it seems like it's another person, and the texture and technique used combine to make it a truly wondrous piece of art. I look at Nathan with tears brimming in my eyes, and he has a smile that reaches clear across his face.

Nathan tells me to get dressed and that we'll go and get something to eat to celebrate. I quickly throw on my clothes, and we hold hands as we run down the stairs and out onto the street. We end up at a place near his apartment, and grab the food to go. Everything seems like a race, as we run part of the way back to his apartment, and barely make it through his front door, before he drops the food bag to the floor and has me pinned against the door, kissing my mouth, my jaw, my neck – anywhere that he can reach.

He walks me backwards to his bedroom, and pushes me onto the bed, as he removes his shirt. I take my top off, and am about to remove my bra, when he tells me to leave it for now. Climbing on top of me, we are a tangle of limbs as we kiss, lick and grope each other. We find it hard to get enough of each other, and our hands are roaming everywhere. All of a sudden his movements slow, but never stop. He starts gentle caresses with me, and takes the rest of my clothes off. Once I am fully naked, I reach out to him, to help remove his clothes, but he does it himself, looking at me with a huge smile on his face. Coming back to hover over me, he reaches into his side draw and pulls out a condom. Sitting back on his heels, he puts the condom on, and in that moment, as I'm looking at him, my heart pounds wildly. I am falling deeply for Nathan Scott.

He is still resting on his heels, as I crawl over to him on the bed. On my hands and knees, I lick a stripe along the length of one of his thighs, over his hip, and then up and over his well sculptured abs. My hands run along his chest, as I mirror the pose he is in and rest against my heels. He trails a finger around one of my nipples before dragging his finger down my stomach, and then between my legs. I buck a little in his direction, before both of his strong hands reach out and deposit me on his lap. We grind against each other a little bit, before he runs two fingers through my folds, ensuring I am well lubricated. I moan in appreciation before he brings me closer, and slides me along the length of his cock. We are both raising up and down, creating delicious friction as I ride him.

Something about this time feels different, and all of sudden Nathan looks deep into my eyes, as if he is trying to silently communicate something to me. He tucks away some of hair either side of my face and smiles.

"I have never known anyone like you, Haley" he says.

"You are the most amazing man I've ever met, Nathan" I reply, holding on to him for dear life.

Taking my face in his hands, he pulls me closer and kisses me with everything he has, our lower bodies starting to grind again rhythmically. In a few short thrusts, we both orgasm, and then collapse together on the bed, entwined in a lover's embrace.

* * *

True to their word, the gallery in Soho held another exhibition eight weeks later, including Nathan's painting of me, or "my painting" as I now called it. We attended the showing, hand in hand, and watched as the guests stopped and appraised his work. As we approached "my painting", Nathan stopped and turned to me. He told me there was one little surprise about the painting he had kept secret from me; the title.

I politely made my through the small number of people to the painting and stared at it, taking in all of the loving strokes and delicate intricacies Nathan had embedded into it. I was overcome with emotion and almost broke into tears, but not before looking at the information card beside the painting:

**"The woman I love." by Nathan Scott, local artist, 2010**

I turned around and faced him, smiling as the tears fell down my face. I walked over to him and kissed him what felt like a million times, as I declared my love for him over and over.

My name is Haley James and I have had twelve lovers in my short twenty-four years, but I found _the one_ in lucky number thirteen.

The End


End file.
